


Failure to Communicate

by SuedeScripture



Category: Actor RPF, Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:33:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1620989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuedeScripture/pseuds/SuedeScripture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris Pine is 100% heterosexual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chris Pine is unequivocally, infallibly, 100% heterosexual. He loves women. He loves boobs, curves, long hair, long legs, and everything in between them. The only cock he's a big fan of is his own, and prefers it be the only one having a party in his bedroom. He certainly has no problem with anyone whose preferences differ, not at all, but he is who he is. 

So when Zach asks him out, at first it goes right over his head. 

"Hey, so, um. Would you want to go out sometime?"

"Oh man, yeah," Chris answers absently as they walk through the Paramount lot to their cars after a long day. "I could seriously go for a huge bowl of pho right now."

Zach coughs, "Um. Well, I meant like some other time. Like Saturday? We'll go somewhere nice, maybe dress up a bit?"

Chris stops beside his car and turns back to see Zach shifting his feet against the pavement. He shakes his head with a smile, "Never miss an opportunity to get me all gussied up, do you? Sure, Saturday's cool."

Zach breaks into a brilliant smile, "Gussied. Good one. So, I'll pick you up at eight?"

"Gotcha."

Zach does a silly twirl off his heel to his own car as Chris gets in, revs his engine and decides he can go get pho by himself.

He's drumming his fingers on the table of his favorite Vietnamese place before it occurs on him. Zach had been uncharacteristically antsy. He'd tugged at his hair. He'd shoved his hands deep in his pockets (something of a feat considering how tight those jeans are). He'd scuffed his shoes. He'd _hey, so, um_ ed. 

This is Zach, a man who had arrived in LA with $200 in his pocket and somehow managed to charm, seduce or otherwise weasel his way to rubbing shoulders with damn near everyone who's anyone in the biz in the space of maybe five years. Chris grew up around the business, and certain people in it can still make him pee himself. Zach has balls of steel. It takes something else entirely to get him nervous.

So, a nervous Zach asked him if he wanted to get dressed up and go somewhere nice, presumably for dinner, Saturday night at eight.

The giant steaming bowl of broth and accoutrements are set in front of him when it sinks in, and Chris swears he's not that dense, he just didn't see it for what it was when it was happening. Saturday night at eight. Standard first date protocol. Zach just asked him out on a date. 

Weird.

He's known Zach for quite awhile, peripherally for most of it. They're practically neighbors, they're gym and jogging buddies, they hang out on the weekends, have lots of mutual friends, and now that they've started filming this thing, they've only gotten closer for it. And it's been great. Zach is totally the sort of guy Chris likes to hang out with. He's smart as hell, well-read, worldly and politically savvy, compassionate, funny. He's also a guy who loves the profession, has big ambitions and is _good_ at what he does, to a point that has Chris both envious and admiring. It's one thing to make it because you were born with a foot in the door. It's quite another to graduate from one of the most prestigious drama programs in the country and work your way steadily up the food chain because you're just that damn talented. And over all, Zach is a good friend, a good human being, a guy who makes time even if there is none, who wants to be turned to, and can empathize like a pro. He's become a closer, more trusted friend than most costars in a relatively short span of time.

But he knows Chris is straight, though, right? It's not like they ever needed to talk about this. It's just sort of a given; Chris is straight, Zach is gay, the sky is blue, shit rolls downhill. They've both been single for awhile; big new projects tend to do that. Hell, they've gone out looking for one-nighters together on one or two occasions. Zach has never so much as shown any real interest in Chris before today, outside of the playful flirting that comes with the territory. There's a whole subculture devoted to their characters for fuck's sake, it's the big damn joke of the set, the object of pranks, spoofs and hilarity. If either of them had a problem with it, shit would get weird.

He gets out his phone and debates texting Zach to clarify, fingers hovering, but then he sets it down, dumps his beef slices and veggies into the boiling broth and unwraps his chopsticks. Maybe he's reading it wrong. Maybe Zach just wants to have a fancy dinner just for the hell of it, get them dressed up because Zach loves to dress up and be seen, and it doesn't mean anything.

 

When Saturday evening arrives, however, the intention becomes obvious. Zach usually drums on the door and then barges right in if it's unlocked (which it is), or if it isn't, he stands there pounding out shave-and-a-haircut on every corner of the wood like he's searching for a weak spot to kick in until Chris finally wrenches it open. Tonight, it's just the single, polite chime of the doorbell.

Zach looks as sharp as ever on his doorstep. The shirt has to be new, Chris is sure he hasn't seen that pattern yet, winey purple and set off by well-tailored grey slacks, a matching jacket tucked under his arm. His hair is coiffed and combed as artfully as the Spock 'do can be made unvulcanized, which is surprisingly well, considering. His thick-framed glasses hide the vestigial eyebrows, and his face is silky smooth, freshly shaved and glowing. Chris knows for a fact Zach doesn't shave on the weekends if he can help it.

"You're wearing that?" Zach asks, skeptically looking him up and down, and for just a second Chris thinks, _oh thank god, it's not really a date!_ as he glances down at his own hard-to-fuck-up white shirt/navy blazer combo, before Zach snickers and says, "I'm kidding, jeez. You look really good."

It's not the words, outside of the fact that Zach would ordinarily never say Chris looks good without first poking and prodding him with various schoolmarm-huffed fashion tips as if he's useless on his own. It's the sincerity with which he says it, a sort of truth that casts aside Chris' shortcomings to the fashion-forward world and let him stand on his own for once. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Zach says, stepping in and running his finger down the edge of his lapel, the smile and cautious heat in his dark eyes something Chris is sure he's never seen from Zach before. "Ready? We have a reservation."

"Sure, yeah, let's… um."

Chris locks up and follows Zach out, then on a whim, he darts past to open the driver's side door for him. Because Chris is a fucking gentleman on a date, okay, his momma raised him right. Zach snorts a laugh, his nose wrinkling up the way it does when something delights the fuck out of him and slides in, waiting for Chris to jog around to the passenger's side before he starts the car.

It's kind of a douche move. He really should hold Zach up before they go into the restaurant, explain, clarify that this is all platonic. They can even still eat dinner! And Chris will pay the tab to make up for it. It can still be a date. Just not a _date_ date. 

But as Zach weaves smoothly through the traffic, occasionally glancing his way with a sweet, almost shy grin, the headlights skating around the car's interior highlighting his features in mysterious ways, Chris finds himself as excited and filled with the same anticipatory jitters as on any first date. He thought he knew Zach pretty well, but he's never seen this light in his eyes, never known this side of him. It's weird to think, and yet completely expected to realize that perhaps Zach really is as dualistic as he claims to be. Maybe he does have many faces to suit a situation, and it's in his Gemini nature to hide and show various personalities as he sees fit.

Chris doesn't set much store in astrology, but he's a Virgo. He likes to study things until he understands every single facet of them. What he has discovered thus far in their association is that Zach is one particular motherfucker when it comes to actually dating versus who he'll fuck and push out of bed afterwards. Chris has never really been able to see whatever it is that Zach sees in certain men, so suddenly being his object of interest has his curiosity piqued. And hey, he agreed to a date. He's going to see it through like a champ. Plus, it's just sort of fun.

And it's not that weird, actually. Outside of the fact that Zach's brought him to a pretty high-end restaurant with spacious, yet insular leather-quilted booths and three different forks in the table setting, they chatter as easily as they ever have about work, books they're reading, stuff in the news. It's pretty normal, pretty _them_ , already. With exceptions.

"I have to admit," Zach says with a cautious smile, halfway through the bread and olive course, "I really didn't think you swung this way. But then I saw you with Roger."

Chris smears at the oil on his plate with a hunk of bread and laughs, "Oh, right. Roger."

Zach pops his eyebrows above the frames of his glasses, "Roger."

Roger is one of the lighting techs, a little guy but built like a tank, openly flamboyant, sort of touchy-feely guy who squeezes shoulders and biceps but doesn't cross lines. It's pretty well known that Roger will sleep with anyone working in Hollywood who winks an eye at him, all in casual fun, of course. Zach has winked that direction, in fact, Chris is pretty sure.

A few weeks back, Chris had been asking stupid dork questions about the mechanics of the rigs in the transporter pad, and Roger had patiently explained with a bunch of jargon that might as well have been Greek, but peppered with enough compliments ("the blue LEDs bring out your eyes, you know") and light shoulder rubs and laced jokes that it had Chris grinning and giggling like a little girl. Roger liked that. Chris had let him down easy a little later, and they'd parted ways with a hug, because Chris likes hugs from anyone, and doesn't like to make enemies, especially of people who can drop a canister light on his head. Roger shrugged it off with a smile, no harm, no foul. It wasn't Chris' first time being propositioned by a man. He goes to a Hollywood gym with a gay guy on a routine basis, assumptions are made all the time.

He's never accepted any of said propositions until now, though. "Yeah, Roger, he's great. But, um. Not my type."

Zach's hand covers his own on the table, and no less benign than anything Roger did, but it's still a wholly different sort of contact than any they've shared before. His square, hair-dusted fingers stroke featherlight over and between Chris' knuckles and tendons. Zach raises an eyebrow, which would be more effective in its more substantial form, and asks, "What is your type? I'm not even sure I know anymore. At first I thought you were just really picky, but then I remembered to last three women you dated."

"Hey," he admonishes sourly, but Zach just gives him a wicked grin. His hand stays where it is, caressing and drawing patterns, making the skin tingle.

Chris likes to think he doesn't have a type, but there is some evidence to his preference for leggy brunettes, which is funny in this context and makes him giggle like an idiot. "I don't know," he murmurs, turning his hand over and watching Zach's fingers keep up their slow caress on his palm. Caught between wrapping his brain around Zach touching him like this and trying to work out whether or not he's good with it, Chris is saved from answering more seriously by the arrival of their entrées. 

He'd joked on being seated that this is the sort of Italian place that Zach probably had to flash some sort of DNA test and know a secret password to get a table, and it's absolutely worth it. His plate of pasta is enormous, fresh-made and brimming with capers and basil.

 _The way to my heart is definitely through my stomach_ , Chris laughs to himself, gazing lovingly down at his dish and then up at Zach. "Let's make a pact."

"A pact?"

"We are never telling Mike about this," Chris says. "When my gut flubs out five inches because of this, I just woke up that way. Got me? I already filmed my undies scene anyway, I'll just suck it in."

"Right, you're just retaining water. By which you mean pasta with butter sauce," Zach laughs, holding out a fist for a pact-sealing bump before he picks up a fork and looks across thoughtfully. "Anyway, fuck Mike. Your little tummy is so cute."

Chris pauses in twirling his pasta with fork and spoon to shoot him a skeptical sidelong eye, and receives a shrug. "I've always thought so. Besides, there are plenty of ways to work those abs," he grins. Like a hungry tiger.

"Easy, there," Chris says, shoving noodles in his mouth and humming a bit as he chews and swallows. "I'm a very traditional man."

"Oh, really?" Zach lifts his wineglass to that, Quinto sass in full effect. "Touché. I have my work cut out for me."

Chris shakes his head with incredulity. "You're different like this."

"Good or bad?" Zach asks, sipping his merlot.

Lifting his shoulders, he elaborates, "I just feel like maybe I don't know you as well as I thought I did."

"The same could be said of you, Christopher," Zach says, before he drops his eyes. "But yeah, I mean, this is… not something I do, normally."

"What is?"

"I try not to date co-stars on principle, you know? Just professionally."

Chris nods. Despite that being the famed industry axiom, it happens all the time. "So, you're making an exception?"

Zach doesn't answer right away, wiping his mouth with his napkin and twisting the stem of his wineglass on the table before he looks cautiously across the table at him. "I'm taking a calculated risk."

Chris nods casually at that, covering how much pause it gives him. Their contracts are pretty clear; unless this first film totally bombs, they can expect to be working together for possibly the next ten years, maybe more. The fact that they are already good friends makes that probability exciting and hopefully enjoyable. Getting involved with a costar one expects to work with for that long has potential to be fantastic. Or awful.

He really ought to tell him. He spends most of the car ride back home considering how to word it so he doesn't upset Zach and make it come off like it was a prank. But the thing is, he doesn't feel uncomfortable. Nothing about Zach has ever made him feel bad, and this 'date' hasn't changed that. It's definitely different, it's intriguing, but it's not bad.

The pair of them walk slowly up to his door, Chris jangling his house keys in his pocket. He snorts down at his shoes. "This is weird. Do you want to come in, watch a movie or whatever?" Maybe by doing something they normally do, it would buffer the whole situation.

When he turns back, the look on Zach's face brings all his excuses to a swift halt. Chris is certain he's never been looked at like that, by anybody. Naked desire. Who is this guy?

Those dark eyes drop and a shined dress shoe scuffs the concrete, "No, just." He takes a step closer, well into Chris' space, raising one hand to his neck. When Zach meets his eyes again the look is still there, laced with something else he doesn't quite recognize.

If Zach is tentative, the way he kisses speaks to none of it. His lips are soft, warm, only vaguely stubbly at the edges, and talented, just like everything else he does. His hand slides up to Chris' cheek, and then back to push into the short hair at his nape. Chris has had to watch Zach make out with Zoe for a consecutive sixteen takes (he'd taken him to task for it later at the bar, too). He's seen him kiss a number of beautiful women in his show with a certain amount of envy. This guy gets to play a sex symbol on TV every week, however crazy and disjointed the writing is. He's seen him kiss other men on occasion too. It's never been difficult to ascertain that Zach might be a good kisser.

It's nothing to the way it feels to be the fucking recipient, though. Chris is stunned, flat-out _floored_ , to a point where he can't even think about questioning this when Zach's nose slides under his to tip the other direction and opens his mouth, licking slightly, sweetly, asking permission and just meeting Chris' own tongue in a flitty little hummingbird dance before he pulls back an inch to break it. His eyes are jet black wells of want and fire and promises in the porchlight. His upper teeth slide over his bottom lip like he's just tasted a delicacy and wants more, so much more.

Then he smiles, pulling back farther to murmur, "So. Next Saturday night?"

Chris cannot brain. "Huh?"

Zach breathes a laugh and it flutters warm and winey over Chris' mouth, "Movie. You're so traditional, after all."

"Okay," he blindly agrees with a stupid smile, and Zach kisses him one more time, hard, his tongue sweeping across his teeth in a way that has Chris squeaking in surprise.

Grinning wide, Zach says, "I'm sorry, you've had basil on your teeth. For like the last hour."

Chris has to unwrap his fingers from where they've somehow fisted into the sides of Zach's shirt under the blazer to let him go. He scrubs a finger over his teeth, his cheeks flushing hot in the cool of the evening, and he laughs at himself.

Zach's fingers curl in the back of Chris' hair, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to imply much more than he actually says with words. "Goodnight, Chris."

"Uh, yeah. 'Kay. G'night."

Backing up, Zach finally turns to jog down the walk. A giggle echoes out of the dark, "You're such a dork!"

"Back atcha, Quinto." Chris wrenches his door open, leaning back against it as it snicks shut and running his tongue over his teeth again. It's only then that he realizes he's semi-hard in his jeans.

 

The next week at work, everything is back to normal. Well, almost normal. There are crosswords and chess during downtime. While shooting, Zach is the consummate professional, socializing with everyone and dropping completely into the Spock persona he's created like he's literally flipping a switch in his head, which is always cool to witness. Even the goofy flirting and usual wordgames are normal. 

Except sometimes he'll look up to find Zach staring at him. He'll meet his eyes across the set and they'll both look away with a grin. Sometimes Zach will touch him, as commonly as he ever has, a hug after a good take, a hand on his arm in excitement for the conversation, on his back or over his shoulder in camaraderie. But it all feels different somehow. Loaded. Other.

Chris thinks a lot about that date. He thinks a lot about Zach kissing him. He's kissed guys before, it's not that big a deal. Hell, his first screen kiss ever was with a guy. In his opinion, kissing is never a bad thing. He's just never been kissed by a guy with any real sort of intent behind it.

Oddly enough, he thinks more about Zach's responses than his own. The way he'd breathed through it was strangely compelling, mostly through his nose, but in a way that spoke of relief, like a fixation almost, the first hit of a cigarette after trying to quit for months. It wasn't until later that Chris realized the hand not on his head had been on his waist, broad and firm, and Zach's feet had bracketed his own, balancing them both, almost, like a tree. Everything about Zach spoke of some quiet strength and control of the situation, when Chris had lost it entirely. He isn't sure he's ever experienced that before. He wonders if that was what did it, got him hard. He hadn't thought about Zach when he jerked off afterward, he'd just let his brain go fuzzy. But he does lay in bed at night thinking about how he really should tell him he's straight before any of this escalates. He just doesn't know how.  
 

When Saturday night rolls around again and Zach shows up at his door, this time in a regular t-shirt and jeans, everything feels casual enough that it could easily be them having a quick bite to eat at a deli before hitting a movie, just like any other time they've done it.

The movie they choose turns out to be kind of ridiculous, some indie that's a lot more soapy melodrama than the intense thriller for which it was so heavily billed, and it might have worked if it had been done as a horror comedy. They can't help but tip their heads together to whisper and snicker about some of the more outlandish lines. When they'd arrived late, the theater had been so full they'd had to take seats against the wall, but now that quite a few people have walked out of the showing and others have moved forward (likely due to the two assholes in the back who won't shut up), they've got most of the last three rows to themselves.

Zach's grin is all teeth and warm breath hitting Chris' neck, "See, this is the part where she says, 'Oh baby, but I thought you were just going for a drive! Not a murder spree!'"

Chris snorts loud, "Shit, I thought you stopped doing that."

"Hey, now, I did! Sort of," Zach giggles, "I just decided I liked playing with my food before I eat it." He drops an arm around Chris' shoulder, rubbing affectionately. It's such a Zach move anyway that Chris barely even notices.

The scene continues as the woman, despite just finding out her boyfriend is a serial killer, is still somehow entranced by him. "God," Chris hisses, "Finding the trophies of your victims in your dresser drawer gets me all horny and submissive, baby."

"Oh yeah?" Zach tilts in close. The note in his voice has Chris looking from the screen to him, and Zach's eyes dart immediately to his lips at the proximity. 

He hasn't kissed Chris again since last week. Not even when he picked him up tonight; they'd left in a hurry because they weren't sure they'd have time to eat and still make the showing on time. Out of reflex, Chris giggles, both at his own bad joke and the smile on Zach's face that makes his stomach do a weird squiggly thing, and Zach tilts forward the couple of inches it takes to get their lips together. It starts out as just a press of warm, open mouths and breath, Zach's fingers sliding up from Chris' shoulder to cup his head and neck, and it sends a shiver down Chris' spine so strong that even Zach feels it, and the humor in his eyes abruptly turns to something else.

Zach tips in again, lips slow and firm, breath moist. He's a little scruffier than he had been before, and the rasp of it is surprising against Chris' upper lip. But it's the hand on the back of his head that he focuses on, long fingers spanning the whole back of his nape, strong yet gentle, the way Zach tilts him and tugs him a little closer as he slips his tongue in alongside Chris', hot and slick and strong.

Chris shifts subtly down in his seat, unconsciously spreading his legs to make room in his jeans, and his knee bumps up against Zach's in the tight space. The kiss breaks on Zach's gasp at the contact, and then resumes with a fervor as he turns a little more towards Chris. A warm hand slides over his knee.

Giving a little jerk, Chris can hear the tiny noise he makes into Zach's mouth, answered with a moan so low it's almost a feeling instead of a sound. Then the hands are gone as Zach pulls back abruptly, but only to shove the armrest between them up and out of the way before he's back and pressing them thigh to thigh, kissing harder. There's an alarm going off somewhere in Chris' head, dimly, but it's shorted out completely when Zach mouths along his jaw to his neck and breathes low and taut in his ear, "God, Chris. I can't believe..." Zach's hand falls back to the top of his thigh, his skin on fire from the damp heat suddenly panting under his ear, lips and tongue and teeth on skin.

The hand slides up, fingertips following his inseam, thumb stopping just shy of where his keys bunch up in his pocket, and Chris moans. It sounds so loud, so loud in his own ears, and he shoves his fist against his mouth, his other hand flailing down to grab Zach's wrist. 

There's some sort of atomic halt or something where he turns his head and meets Zach's eyes in the flickering dark, and through the haze of vetoes screaming through his brain, Chris feels like he's stomping on the gas and the brakes at the same damn time until the engine gives the fuck up and stalls out, puffing smoke in a ditch somewhere. His hand leaves Zach's arm, fluttering up unconsciously to his chest where he's sure his heart is digging its way through his ribs trying to escape, Zach hisses "Ah fuck", and then his big hand slides home, covering Chris over denim.

Chris whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut. The one and only other time this had ever happened to him as a teenager, he'd spilled a huge tub of popcorn all over the floor and nearly chewed his fist off trying to be quiet. It's the risk, the ease with which they could be caught, jesus, one person could turn around and see from the light on the screen how closely pressed together they are, the reach of Zach's arm into his lap, the way Chris is squirming and shrinking down in the seat to push his knees wide open because he's instantly so hard he can barely breathe.

"Oh my god, you're so hot," Zach is breathing into his neck, mouth against his skin, damp and soft. Zach's whole fucking hand molds to the shape of him, pressing, wrapping around as much as he can over thick cloth, fingers finding the head and rubbing circles there at the same time Zach nips under his ear and then soothes it with his tongue, and Chris shivers out a desperate noise and slaps his hands over his mouth again, nearly hyperventilating as his hips jerk up. " _Zach_ ," he squeaks into his palm, muffled, but Zach gets it, his hand goes faster and firmer, and his voice licks into Chris' ear. 

"You're right there already, aren't you. Oh god, Chris, I want to see you come, shoot in my hand, come on, gorgeous, come for me."

Chris does, like a goddamn teenager, barely containing the sounds crowding up his throat to stilted grunts as his abs clench up hard and his hips judder under Zach's hand, which has slowed, easing him through it, fingers playing over the wet patch bleeding through his jeans. In another second, it withdraws and Zach muffles a hard breath and heavy, whimpery noise by shoving his face in the crook of Chris' shoulder.

The last minute of the film rolls over to the credits as they sprawl there, melty and catching their breath. Chris has no idea what happened to the stupid couple in it and doesn't care. He feels prickly with sweat between his shoulder blades and squishy in his pants, and _shit_ , they have to walk out of here at some point. Other people already are, and he can't help but blush furiously at the thought that any of them saw. He wonders if someone will tell the management. With a laugh, he slaps at Zach's chest with the back of his hand and says, "Fuck, let's get out of here, man. I like this theater, I don't want to get banned from it."

Zach snorts agreement and stands. Before he grabs his jacket, Chris catches sight of the dark patch spread next to the pocket of his jeans too, his glasses half-fogged up, hair a mess where he's raked his hand through it, expression amused and guilty.

Jackets held strategically in front of themselves, they head out. Another big film has let out at the same time, and the hallway is full of moving people. It's something of a blessing as they both duck into the men's and head for separate stalls to try to clean up and tie their jackets around their waists.

They don't speak on the drive home. Chris is lost in his own head, which is still fuzzy with the endorphins of a really intense orgasm, and all he can think about is that Zach came too. He can't remember if and when Zach even had a chance to touch himself, all he remembers is the hand on his cock and the one wrapped strong and heavy around his neck, fingers digging into his hair, palm splayed over one ear and Zach's mouth and voice in the other. He hasn't come with that kind of immediacy since he was about fifteen.

When Zach pulls up to the curb outside Chris' place and turns off the engine, the silence is weird and anxiously funny. He can't help but giggle into it like a gutter-minded teenager. Zach does too, shaking his head as he stares at the dark outside the windows. "I'm so sorry," he says, rubbing at the back of his own neck, "I don't usually… um."

"No worries," Chris says. It's probably the most awkward quasi-conversation they've ever had. He looks at Zach, and Zach looks at him, and they giggle again.

Zach looks down, almost shyly, his long eyelashes brushing his cheeks like a girl's. "Okay, I'm going to go. That was… more than second base, I think."

Before Chris has a witty retort for that about how the bases go, Zach has a warm hand on his thigh again. Friendly but for the fact that that same hand made him come so hard he saw stars not a half hour ago. Zach's other hand comes to cup and caress his cheek, leaning over the console to pull him into the warm, slow kiss that ends with their foreheads still pressed together and Zach's sweet smile. "I'm actually not sorry. That was hot as hell."

Chris snorts, pulling Zach's hand from his face but holding it, these big manly hands that feel so different on him. It's weird. "Okay, bye," he pulls back, undoing his seatbelt and pushing the door open.

Zach's hand doesn't let go of his until it has to. "See ya."

 

He has to tell him. It wasn't like he'd said no, Chris is pretty sure he'd been on board about the whole thing at the time, but the thing is he'd let his best friend give him a hand job in a movie theater, and they aren't just friends, they're co-workers too, and the whole thing is just unprofessional of them both. Not to mention Chris is straight, and Zach obviously has the wrong idea, and it's wrong of Chris not to put him right about it. It's less about the gay thing than it is about how damn unethical it is, how he's playing Zach for a fool, who most definitely isn't one.

He spends all day Sunday thinking about it, how to say it, trying to choose his words carefully. His usual script doesn't work here. When guys ask him out, he always puts on an apologetic smile and makes sure to give him a friendly pat on the shoulder as he gives the whole _Man, I'm flattered, and you seem really cool, it's not you, it's me_ line. That totally won't work for Zach. Zach deserves a lot more explanation, and there will probably be some hurt feelings to deal with at this point, which Chris feels pretty guilty about already.

But it's really hard to figure out how he should say it when he's completely unsure of how Zach will respond. What if he gets angry? What if, god forbid, he cries? What if he cries _and_ he's angry? Chris has no idea how to go about anything beyond saying the words, _I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I'm straight_.

The one thing he definitely does know is that it should be done face-to-face, in private. So he scrapes up his courage, sits on his couch, and flips through his contacts to Zach's number to ask if he can come over.

"Hey you," Zach answers, "I was just thinking about you." There's a warm smile in his voice, and something else too. A sort of tension.

It stops Chris in his tracks. "You were?"

"Yeah." There's a breath taken, exhaled, and then a weird, sort of… bubbly noise.

Chris blinks. "Dude, is that… water?"

Zach rumbles a laugh, "I'm in the bathtub." More water sounds, like he's scooping it up and letting it dribble off his fingers to illustrate.

"You answer your phone from the bathtub?" Chris laughs incredulously. "Unbelievable. You would be so fucking attached to that thing. Do you answer it when you jack off too?"

"Depends on whose calling me, "Zach replies, his voice low and insinuating.

Chris huffs, dumbstruck by the implications behind that, and how Zach had answered the phone in the first place. "Why are you thinking about me in the bathtub?"

"Why do you think I answered?" There are more water sounds, the surface of the water breaking and moving.

Shocked, Chris tries to compensate by laughing. He really should hang up. No, he should at least say something before he hangs up. "Dude, I should let you go, uh, do your thing, then."

"No, hey, come on," Zach snickers, splashy splash, "Why did you call?"

Chris scrubs a hand over his face, "I was going ask if I could come over."

"Mi casa es su casa," Zach rumbles with another rung of tautness in his voice. "Should I wait until you get here?"

"Huh?"

Zach giggles breathlessly, "It's cute how stupid you get when you're turned on." 

"Hey, I'm not…" Except, oh hey, he is, looking down at his jeans.

There are more splashes and a moan before Zach enunciates, low and downright growly. "One more time, Christopher. Should I wait until you get here? Because," a hard exhale, "I don't know if I can. At this point."

Jesus. "Are you seriously—?"

"Yeah, I am, seriously." The words are an edgy sigh, and the sounds of the water, bubbling and rippling and _slapping_ are so indicative it's ridiculous for Chris to even ask. He can practically see Zach in his head, stretched out in his bathtub with his big feet propped up on the sides, toes pushing and curling against the tile. He can see the way his arm and leg hair is all slicked back against his skin too, because he's seen Zach get out of the pool or the showers at the gym and he's always been so fucking envious of all that manly rug happening. Except in this context, he can see Zach, all naked and wet with his hand on his—

An involuntary noise leaves Chris' throat as he presses his wrist down over his crotch, and over the phone he hears Zach's breath suddenly hitch and then, distantly, _Ah fuck, fuck!_ and a lot of splashing. And then a deep breath peppered with laughing, and Zach's voice is breathy, "Too late. God, Chris."

Chris' dick jerks hard, and he has an immediate sense memory of yesterday, of Zach's hand on him over his jeans and that voice right up in his ear. Just like it is now.

"Chris?"

"Fuck."

"Are you touching yourself?"

Chris falls back against the sofa cushions and yanks his fly open, sighing as he finally gets his hand on himself.

"Do you have any fucking idea how hot you look when you come, Chris?" Zach's voice is wrought with intent. "With your mouth open and your eyes all out of focus, just gasping like you need to come to breathe. Are you close?"

Chris whimpers, his fist jerking with no finesse whatsoever, hellbent on getting to the end right the fuck now.

"I want you to come for me like you did yesterday. Remember how I had your big cock in my hand, Chris? Not even in my hand, but I could feel you. Fuck, I want to see it so bad, I bet it's as gorgeous as the rest of you. Oh Chris, I want to get it in my mouth and suck you so hard—"

That's it, he's done. Chris explodes all over his hand and the hem of his t-shirt, a hoarse shout leaving his throat, spluttering off to breathy moans as he wrings himself dry. 

"Wow, you're loud," Zach now amused voice says, a little tinny where the hand gripping the phone has slipped to his shoulder.

"Fuck you," he moans hazily.

"No, it's totally hot," Zach giggles. There are more watery sounds, possibly the glug of a drain. They hover silently as Chris' breathing slows. "Did you still want to come over?"

He tries to claw his way through the post-orgasm brain fuzz and back to his original intentions here. Fuck. He can't in good conscience go over to Zach's now, and do what he'd meant to do. Not after that. It's almost like he's breaking up with him at this point. He's never managed to remain friends with any of the girls who have dumped him, and he doesn't want to lose Zach over this. They're buddies. But he's not even sure if he can look Zach in the face right now. Zach just talked him off over the phone, for fuck's sake.

"Chris?" He can almost hear the eyebrow in his voice. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he says quickly. "Yeah, no, I mean I wanted to… uh, run lines or something, but…"

"Run lines? Really? Is this Drama club?" Zach snorts. "You can still come over. I gotta wash my hair though."

"Jesus, you're such a girl," Chris latches onto that, "You've been in the bath and now you have to… what, take a shower to wash your precious hair?"

"Christopher, we need to talk about how girly it is to wash one's hair in bathwater with come in it," Zach intones pointedly.

"Insert _There's Something About Mary_ joke here," he snorts, regarding his own sticky hand for a moment. "I need to take a shower too," he says, "'M sleepy now."

Zach snickers, "You're that asshole who rolls off and passes out, aren't you."

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"I would, actually, that's a deal breaker," Zach's grin is audible, "I like to snuggle."

Chris huffs a deep exhale, "Go wash your hair, Cuddlebear."

"Miss you, Sugarbuns," Zach singsongs.

Chris snorts and rolls his eyes. "See you at work."

 

The following day, the mood on set is wound like a tesla coil. Chris is glad they filmed the actual fight sequence last week, because the air is practically snapping every time he meets Zach's eyes over the bridge set after they'd filmed the choking scene this morning. He's positive everyone in the room is aware of it. JJ's eating it up because it's working for the scene, but Simon, closest to them both and shivering because he's drenched, keeps cracking jokes to break the tension. It's that obvious. 

Or at least Chris thinks it is. When they stop to fix yet another blown circuit from the eight billion amps they're running in here, no one seems the wiser, wandering off to their own little areas, and all he wants is to sit somewhere quiet with his book and try to take his mind off things, because he still hasn't figured out what the hell to do about this.

He's searching through his bag for his novel when a hand grabs his arm and that voice murmurs close in his ear, "Come with me," and his whole goddamn spine goes taut.

"Zach, I just wanna take a break, man."

"We are taking a break," Zach laughs, tugging him off the soundstage. "Come on."

"Where are we going?" Zach's hand is like a clamp around his own, dragging him down a long hall and looking back over his shoulder like a thief as he strides quickly, Chris practically having to jog to keep up.

"There's something I want to show you," he says, trying a door and finding it locked, and then dragging him to the next one. This door opens on a nondescript, unused room, if the boxes of random shit and office furniture piled in it are any indication.

"What?" Chris asks as he's pushed inside and Zach turns to shut the door. "This is a storage room."

"Very astute, Christopher, that's exactly what it is. You get a gold star." With that he shoves Chris backward and slams their mouths together.

His tongue is wicked and aggressive, teeth nipping, the strength of him pressing Chris hard against the wall, and just like that, the brunt of all the stress is flayed wide open. All he can do is grunt and try to keep up, novel falling to the floor as his hands dig into the sides of Zach's blue uniform, feet spreading to find purchase on the floor.

Zach draws back on a hiss of an inhale and snarls, "You've been driving me crazy all day." He dives on him again, hard and swift and there's a wild undercurrent of glee when he speaks. "Do you have any idea how _hard_ it is to work under these conditions? Hmm?" His hips punctuate the word, grinding up against Chris' own.

"Fuuuu—"

"Uh-huh," Zach agrees, kissing him again before he slides down the front of his body to his knees.

 _Whoa!_ Chris thinks, his hands fluttering down to Zach's shoulders, and he clamps his teeth in effort to slow down his body's gut reaction. Zach is not helpful, his hands clutching his hips, thumbs teasing into the wells of his hipbones as he pushes his nose up against him in his pants and inhales, nudging up under Chris' black Starfleet undershirt and his wet, pointed tongue tracing the line of hair under his belly button, just above his waistband.

"Zach," he gasps, making the mistake of looking down and seeing the fucking Spock face, nearly the same one he'd seen standing over him this morning, predatory and wicked as he drags Chris' fly down. 

He brings his hands to the sides of Zach's head, causing him to freeze. "Ears, Chris, jesusfuck, don't mess them up," he laughs, his hands leaving Chris' body to grab his wrists and pull them away, taking them both in one hand to hold captive against his belly as he reaches for Chris' zipper again.

"Zach," Chris hunches forward over him, ineffectively pressing his butt into the wall to try to pull his hips away, twisting out of Zach's hold to push at his shoulders. "Quit. Not here."

"Fuck, Chris, I want to," Zach whines petulantly, pressing his forehead to Chris' hip, his hands finding his thighs again and sliding upward, and all Chris can think of is that pale base makeup smearing onto the black fabric of his pants.

"No, stop it, come on, not here," he repeats. They can't do this at work. He doesn't want to do this here, however traitorous his dick is being about it. He takes a deep breath and pushes Zach firmly off, working his zipper back up over the bulge in his trousers.

Zach sits back on his heels, suddenly putting both hands over his nose and mouth, breathing into them like Vader for a moment. "You're right. _Shit._ You're right." He takes another couple of breaths before he stands up, staring at Chris before he leans a hand against the wall and puts the other over Chris' heart. "I'm sorry. You're just…" he huffs an ironic laugh, "You make it very hard for me to think rationally."

"I'm not trying to," Chris says blankly. He's still cupping himself somewhat protectively between them, and he consciously moves that hand to pull Zach's hand down from his chest.

"You don't have to," Zach murmurs, staring, his eyes dark and pupils blown. He starts to lean in again, and Chris turns his head away.

"Okay, sorry," Zach says, backing off, his fingers coming up to gingerly prod at the ears to see if they're still on. There's sort of an undercurrent of hurt beneath the nonchalance of his motions, and it makes Chris' stomach twist.

"Look, come over tonight, after work." Maybe after they get through this day, and these scenes, he can have Zach over, sit him down and tell him about what an idiot he's been and how he didn't mean for this to continue the way it has.

Zach's eyes come back to him, and he bites his lip as he thinks aloud, "I'll have to go home first and let the dog out, but after…"

"Okay."

"Okay." Zach smiles wide and bright, darting close to kiss him again, light and anticipatory, though within a breath he's pawing at Chris again. 

"Zaaaach."

"Okay, fff—" Zach laughs and wrenches open the door, glancing both ways before he strides out, tugging down the hem of his shirt. Chris stoops to grab for his fallen book, following a little slower, trying to will his hard-on down.

When he gets back to set, Chris hears Zach getting severely admonished by his make-up artist and does a swift one-eighty, fleeing to the bathroom to hide from his own for a few minutes. His own mouth is kiss-swollen and his makeup smeared. Jesus, how fucking obvious could the pair of them be? This has to stop.

 

When he gets home, Chris takes a quick shower, puts on a t-shirt and jeans, makes sure there's beer in the fridge. He flips through the channels to see if there's anything they'd want to watch. He pulls out his take-out menus. Maybe if he can just have Zach over for a normal night of them doing normal things, and they can talk about what they're doing, and Chris can come clean about how he was just curious, and how Zach's probably the only guy he'd ever trust with this sort of thing, and it will just bring them closer as friends.

It won't take long for Zach to push Noah out the door to do his business and shower himself before he comes over. It doesn't give Chris much time to prepare, to find his words and his buddy smile and gather his nerves for this particular performance. He knows it has to be convincing if he's going to get through it with their friendship intact.

His heart starts throbbing in his chest when the doorbell finally rings. Taking a deep breath, he heads for the door, but when he gets to it, seeing the insubstantial, blurry shape of Zach in the frosted glass entry window, it hits him.

He's not going to get around to telling Zach. He doesn't have the words or the balls, and besides that, he practically invited him over to continue what they'd started in that spare room at the studio. He's already getting hard, anticipating what will happen as soon as he opens the door.

Zach's face is calm, impassive and yet determined, standing casually on his porch like a vampire waiting to be invited in. Chris swallows, licks his lips, and Zach inhales through his nose, chest rising like an imminent tide. He crosses the threshold and closes the door himself, softly, and slowly backs Chris against the wall.

Chris knows he's lost when Zach's mouth meets his, both of his big hands rising to push into his hair and thumbs gently cradling his jaw, tilting him just so. Zach is methodical this time, the opposite of the frenzy of earlier, as if he'd spent the rest of the day analyzing what he'd done and striving for a perfect do-over. It's got Chris on strings like a puppet that he can pull in any direction at this point, and fuck if he knows why. The very sound of them sucking each other's tongues and breathing each other's air lights him on fire.

He brings his own hands up to Zach's waist, solid and muscular, his chest firm, shoulders bulky. He's never touched a guy like this, not to feel his body, how much different it is than what he's used to in this sort of situation. Yet it's still familiar. He knows Zach's smell and the cadence of his breath. He knows Zach's strength matches his own from sparring in training and at the gym. He also knows Zach would be the last person to purposely cause him harm.

Zach pulls from his mouth only to latch on his his neck, softly biting and kissing to soothe as he purrs in Chris' ear, "You smell so fucking good." His hands travel around his shoulders and down his back, firm and wide like a ten point massage. At the edge of his shirt, Zach's hands dip under the hem and then push back up underneath, Chris' skin wanting to leap against his fingerprints. His knees feel weak, unwilling to continue supporting him under the weight of what he's feeling. He pushes off the wall, turning and pulling Zach to the couch so he can sit down. Zach's smile is all teeth as he straddles Chris' thighs with uncanny grace, like he's been here a million times before, tipping Chris' head back to keep kissing.

Chris can do very little but let Zach in, push his mouth wider, his tongue plunging deeper, twisting with his own before he gets back into gear, pushing up into Zach's mouth himself for a turn and shoving his hands under the shoulders of Zach's windbreaker. His nerves sizzle at the hungry puff of breath his participation wins him, Zach shrugging and shaking the rest of the way out of the jacket sleeves without breaking away from his mouth. He hears a double thump of shoes hitting the floor before there are hands again, tugging up Chris' shirt until it's caught by his armpits and they have to separate momentarily to get it the rest of the way off. Zach pauses once it's tossed aside, dark eyes following his own hands as they trace down Chris' chest and tummy. He clenches his abs as it brushes there, a wry eyebrow lifting even as Zach smooths his hand back up to circle and lightly pinch at a pink nipple, making Chris hiss in a breath and lift his hands to clutch at the top of the sofa for purchase. He feels like he's falling.

Zach grins, tilting to kiss and mouth at one of Chris' flexed arms before he follows it back to his shoulder and jaw and lips. "God, I love your body," he murmurs into his mouth, fingers still roaming over his skin like trails of warm honey, and Chris' eyes drop closed of their own accord. All these things Zach says to him, about him, he can't help it, they feed his ego like nothing else. Girls never tell him this shit. The best he ever gets is _your eyes are pretty_ or _you're so cute_ , but never anything like _you look hot when you come, you smell so good, you drive me crazy, gorgeous_. He wishes he knew what to say in return, ways to pay Zach similar compliments, but everything he thinks of would just sound like terrible high school poetry out loud. If he told Zach he reminds him of everything that's good about coffee, he'd probably laugh his head off.

But he wants to even the score, and reaches down to open the buttons of Zach's shirt, getting only half of it undone before he wants to push his fingers up into that enviable patch of hair. It's softer than he expected, crisp and clean and feels so good against his own skin as Zach tugs the shirt open the rest of the way and somehow rolls his whole body in, sealing them together from pelvis to mouth. Chris groans to feel the heat and press of Zach against him in his jeans, and again, louder when Zach does this swivel thing with his hips that has to require several extra vertebrae to accomplish, sucking on Chris' bottom lip at the same time. All he knows is that he doesn't want it to stop, his own hips rising up to meet each wave from lips to groin.

He's in a daze when Zach's hand works its way into the tight space between them, every brush setting off shivers as buttons are popped and zippers yanked, Zach exhaling hard against his jaw as everything is loosened. But then it all goes taut once again when he feels Zach's hand, his big masculine hand sliding down his stomach and into his underwear, and his own hands clutch at Zach's arms for purchase, gasping something close to Zach's name.

"Oh jesus, Chris," Zach breathes in his ear, cheek to cheek but his eyes downcast to watch his hand work, slowly pulling and stroking. It's beyond weird, the angle all wrong, but a hand that feels as strong and practiced as his own on his dick. Not at all gentle or hesitant, the way women always are with him, but firm and familiar. Experienced. A sound embarrassingly close to a whimper leaves his throat.

Suddenly this position seems so vulnerable. He feels pinned, like an insect to a board. It's totally different with a woman in his lap, usually so much smaller and lighter than he is, but above him with his hand in his pants, Zach looms large and imposing. Chris heaves, tipping Zach over to the side, against the arm of the couch so he can crawl over him, push both those hands to the cushion and kiss him again. The kissing he can handle, he can even engage, it feels more in control. Zach rumbles a laugh into his mouth like he's pleased with this turn of events, though he soon wrests his hands free of Chris' and pushes them into his hair again, up over his scalp and then down his neck, his shoulder blades, his back. His knees splay wide around Chris, his own jeans loose as his hips rise up to meet Chris' own, a stuttery, pleasurepain rub between cotton underwear, rucked denim, buttons and zipper teeth, with Zach's hands so warm on his naked back, smoothing up and down, up and down.

And down, pushing under Chris' pants, fingers dragging over the thick muscle of his ass as they kiss. The first time, Chris clenches forward, making their dicks rub together hard, an arousing but bizarre onslaught from both sides that has Zach growling into his mouth and bucking up as Chris pants in confused response. In the space of a weekend, the physicality between them has evolved at an exponential rate. That safe place where shit stays above the belt has been left far, far behind, where some teenage groping over clothes could be passed off as harmless fun between friends, where this thing they're doing isn't serious.

Zach's tongue sweeps Chris' mouth as his fingers dig in, squeezing and releasing to rub under fabric, palms hot and just slightly sticky against his skin. His fingers spread wide over each cheek, the tips tracing along the crease between ass and thigh, converging inward to stroke into the damp, hot cleft.

"Yeeaah, no, okay," Chris leaps up and off, clutching at the waist of his jeans to keep them from shimmying down any farther.

Zach flails where he lies, mouth open and entirely lust-drunk, "What?"

Chris zips his pants back up and shuffles his feet a little on the rug. Weirdly enough, his hard-on hasn't died entirely, it's squirming around trying to process whether or not fingers not his own and not in any way clinical poking around his ass was good or bad.

"I'm sorry, okay," he says, shaking his head. "I've just… I've never." He meets Zach's eyes briefly, hoping to convey his meaning.

Zach is apparently fluent in Ass-Virgin and incredulous about it, "Are you serious? With that ass?"

"Yes, with this ass, Zach," Chris rakes his hands through his hair, coming back over to sit on the couch. It's a lot easier to sit beside him and stare at the coffee table than to look at him, with his lips swollen and hair all mussed to hell— _I did that, holy shit_ —and his dick so fucking interested in the proceedings that the crown of it is poking out the top of his underwear, just under and to the left of his belly button between the open halves of his shirt and undone fly, and holy fucking cow, that's Zach's cock he was humping up against and it's huge. "I haven't done any of this before, okay?"

Zach thumps his head back on the couch with a sigh, scrubbing his hands over his face for a moment, "Um. Okay. Okay, so… I'll go slow."

When Chris looks back at him, he rolls up and slides close, cautious like he's taming a frightened, snappy dog, turning to face him on the sofa and rubbing a big warm hand over Chris' thigh. His eyes are so dark and deep, and they match his voice, low and seductive and coffee rich with his soft _trust me_ smile, "You're not my first one, Chris, I can go slow. I'll be gentle." He brings a hand to Chris' nape, fingers threading into his hair as his other hand rubs at his thigh. "I can make it so good for you, I promise."

Jesus, Chris can't believe he's actually considering it, falling like a stone for that voice, thinking what it might be like to take it up the ass if it's just like Zach says and it's so good—

"No, _fuck_ ," he says, shrinking away into the corner of the sofa, crossing his arms in effort to cover his bare chest, feeling naked, suddenly. "I'm an asshole. Seriously. I haven't been entirely truthful here, okay?"

Zach frowns, confused, and already there's hurt in his eyes. "What the hell, Chris? What's going on with you?"

He grits his teeth and swallows his pride. "I'm not gay, okay? I'm not even bi." He takes a deep breath at Zach's total silence and stillness, plunging on, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it to go this far, I just… I just wanted to know what you were like."

He can't even look at Zach. Can't deal with the complete and total silence. He's ready and willing to take a punch, or be screamed at, because yeah. He's a total douchebag.

When the sofa cushion bounces and he looks up, Zach is hastily trying to yank together his fly and button it up, shirt still hanging open as he grabs his jacket and shoes, not even bothering to pull them back on his way to the door. When they come, his words are spit with fire and rage and from the sound of it, possibly tears. "Fuck you, Chris."


	2. Chapter 2

It doesn't take long before virtually everyone on set is aware, dimly or otherwise, that Chris and Zach had some kind of falling out. Whispered conversations stop abruptly when either of them walk by, the PA's tiptoe around both of them and nervously tip their heads together between encounters, costars give them long, perplexed stares, but don't butt in. During scenes, the pair of them are exceedingly cordial and utterly professional, but off-camera, Zach is withdrawn, cold, speaks to virtually no one except his own make-up people and assistant. And possibly Zoe, though it's clear from her frustration that even she's not getting a thing out of him. But her loyalties run deep, so anytime they're in the same room, her eyes unnervingly track Chris around like a lioness wearing down an injured gazelle, as if she knows emphatically that he's the cause of it all.

It doesn't help that he is. When Zach had left his house, Chris sat on his sofa for hours, replaying everything in his head, feeling confused, horny as hell, and too ashamed to do anything about it. He'd shot a text off to Zach in the early hours of the morning ( _I'm really sorry_ ), but it's since gone unanswered. Two nervous attempts at calling sent him directly to Zach's voicemail. His costumes feel uncomfortable, itchy and wrong.

At the end of the week, JJ pulls Chris aside, his voice doing that _I'm trying to be sympathetic but seriously I don't have any spare time for this bullshit_ thing. "Look, it's sort of obvious you and Zach aren't getting along, you know?"

"Tell me about it," Chris sighs.

"You want to tell _me_ about it?"

Wincing, Chris shakes his head. "It's… personal. I lied about something, and he took it badly. Really badly."

JJ sighs, tapping his ever moving, over-caffeinated fingers against a clipboard. "Okay. So, you apologize to him, he apologizes to you, you guys agree to disagree, whatever, things get better."

"Would if he'd talk to me," Chris mutters, crossing his arms. JJ has never been a great mediator. He hates confrontation and likes to pretend the world is the shiny happy place he believes it to be, even more so when something is going wrong.

"Look, Chris, I realize coworkers fight sometimes, and some actors are bigger divas than others, but we're on a time crunch here. The movie needs you, and him, everyone else needs you two to bounce off of. I really don't want this brought to the suit's attention when they visit next week. You know how it is. I don't want to have to stage an intervention or a sit-down-and-hug-it-out meeting or some shit. It's never good. Alright?"

"Gotcha."

As JJ slaps his back and moves off, Chris suddenly realizes how accusatory he'd sounded. "Hey," he calls out, then hesitates when his boss turns back. "If you're going to talk to him too, just… just know I didn't mean it like it sounded. Nothing was his fault. Okay?"

"O-kay."

"It's on me," Chris reiterates. "It's my fault."

His weekend passes excruciatingly slowly. He sits on his couch, staring at the opposite end of it, and it all looks different in the daylight. He stares at Zach's number in his phone but doesn't dial. He considers calling other friends to hang out and distract him, but he doesn't want anyone else's company. He repeats all of this the next day, and by Sunday afternoon, knowing he's got to face Zach again on set in the morning, he feels like he wants to peel his skin off. They were just fooling around, right? Why has everything gotten so serious?

He goes for a hard run to kill some of the spinning energy in his mind and body, pushing himself for hours and miles past what he'd normally do to feel his heart pounding and blood running again. His shirt is soaked down the front and back when he finally heads back toward home. When he's within sight of his apartment, he pulls up short. 

Zach is sitting on his apartment steps with Noah. Once spotted, the dog pulls gleefully at Chris in recognition. With a few hesitant steps, Chris squats down to greet the dog, roughing up his scruffy beard and letting him lick his ears. He recognizes the gambit for what it is, though. The dog is a buffer between them, this fluffy, unburdened creature of happiness bouncing between two points of contention. 

Watching dully, Zach looks irritable and a lot like he'd rather be anywhere but here, right down to his _fuck everything, I'm not out to impress anybody_ ensemble of cut-off shorts, flip flops and a clunky tank that has seen better days, probably around 1994. 

"So," he mutters, "I was told under no uncertain terms that we have to hash this out."

Chris worries the inside of his lip with his teeth and nods, "Yeah. I got that, too." He pets Noah for a minute, still trying to slow his breathing, though Zach's presence keeps his pulse up to a jogging rate. "Do you want to, uh," he looks beyond Zach's shoulder at his door and reconsiders. The inside of his own house is not a good place for either of them right now. They need some place bigger, more public, a place that requires a degree of civility. "Maybe go to the park?" He's just been around the reservoir a half a dozen times, but whatever. Thankfully, Zach nods, standing up and dusting off his ass. 

They walk in silence with the dog panting and weaving happily between them. Chris is acutely aware of how sweaty he is, wiping at his brow with the hem of his shirt and pushing his fingers up through his matted hair. He knows the ball is in his court to explain himself, and Zach is waiting on him even as they arrive at the green expanse of lawn and trees, where a few people picnic and throw a football back and forth in the distance.

"Zach, I…" he tries to begin, "I still don't know what I'm supposed to say here." He can see—hell, he can _feel_ Zach stiffen up beside him, his gaze resolutely across the park. "But I do know that I'm sorry. For lying to you."

Zach huffs an annoyed sound, shaking his head as if in disbelief. He won't look at him. In fact, Chris realizes, Zach has barely looked at him in a week, not unless it was absolutely required for a shot.

"You gotta know how sorry I am," he continues, taking a deep breath. "I have never been more sorry about anything, okay? Not even when I broke my grandma's Catalina Pin-Up Girl shadowbox."

Zach gives that a humorless snort, and Chris plunges with his half-joke, "Seriously, I made my mom cry." It doesn't help. Zach is immediately somber again.

"Look. Here," Chris kneels down in the grass, palms up in supplication. "I'm begging, please. I'm so sorry."

Zach glances at him under his lashes and then swiftly darts his eyes around the park. "Get up," he mutters.

"Please, Zach."

"Chris—" 

"Please."

Abruptly Zach just sighs and sits on his ass a few feet in front of him, legs splayed out and arms on his knees. Noah noses at him for a moment, then lays down beside him.

Chris sits back on his heels, still trying to look as repentant as he feels. It must work, because Zach softens a little bit, but not much. He still won't look at him, he just pulls at the grass between his legs.

The haircut is severe out of costume and unstyled, limp and nerdy, accentuating how big and red Zach's nose is, how pale and blotchy the rest of his skin, bluish under his eyes and where his weekend stubble shadows his jaw and down his neck. His eyebrows are two stupid pointy dots like some anime character, but their lack still fails at making his face devoid of the anger and hurt all over it now.

"I have never felt more betrayed—"

Chris groans, "I know."

"Let me finish," Zach says sharply. Everything about him is an ominous little thundercloud that could potentially blow up dark and raging at any minute. Genuinely Angry Zach is a rare, but terrifying thing. Chris shuts up and waits.

"I have never felt more betrayed by a friend in my whole life. Much less one I was falling for," he says, looking down at the blades of grass he's tearing in his fingers, "One I thought felt the same way."

Jesus. Chris feels like he could throw up, stomach in his throat and heart somewhere down around his ass. Zach was falling for him? For real?

"Does that disgust you?" Zach sneers, or it would be a sneer if he could muster up the energy for one, but he just looks utterly broken, splayed on the grass like a spider who's lost several legs in battle. 

Chris darts his tongue across his dry lips and chokes, "No," his voice unreliably cutting out. "I'm so sorry."

"You've said that," Zach closes his eyes, lashes damp and spiky, "It doesn't make it hurt any less."

Chris cringes and shuts up. He should never speak again, clearly. The fact that he perpetrated such a lie that he's betrayed his best friend is deplorable. Chris has been subjected to heartbreak plenty of times, and he's since tried to make it his duty not to be the asshole who causes it. And look what he's done. Absolutely nothing in Chris' world has shamed him so much as this.

Zach laughs abruptly, not his warm, wonderful, life-is-amazing laugh, but a stuttered and stilted thing that belies any happiness whatsoever, one hand scrubbing his forehead against the harsh edge of his bangs as he glares across the park. "I was so careful around you before. I'm always careful with straight guys. God. I knew it too, I knew you couldn't be. So stupid. Why didn't I just ask you?"

"No," Chris shakes his head ardently. "No, Zach, I should have told you from the beginning. I… Jesus, there was no good reason for me to lead you on. I am such an asshole."

"You really are the biggest asshole I've ever met."

Chris lets out an aborted laugh that's more like a sob, agreeing wholeheartedly. His chest hurts.

"So, why did you?"

Chris heaves a sigh and flops back in the grass. "I don't even know."

"Fuck you, Chris," Zach says tiredly, "It took me weeks to find the nerve to ask you out. I was so scared, just to kiss you. Then I gave you a handjob in a movie theater and nearly sucked you off when we were working, which are things I've _never_ risked doing before, by the way." His voice goes quietly shattered, "I came very, very close to fucking you. Making love to you. Because I thought that's what you wanted. You made me believe you wanted it. So, you know, you owe me an explanation, at least, so I don't keep feeling like I've taken horrible advantage of you."

"No, I…" Chis is wrecked by this confession. Zach was scared. Of him? Risked getting caught for him, wanted to _make love to him_. Zach was falling… 

No, call it what it is. Zach is in love with him. This has gone way deeper than Chris ever realized.

And the thing is, he didn't put a stop to it, even though he should have, had multiple opportunities to do so. He'd only encouraged it, invited it, went along with it out of curiosity and inability to think when his dick gets some play. Then he'd reacted like a massive homophobe to being touched in a way that frankly wasn't all that bad, it just spooked him because… because… 

He stumbles numbly across the truth. "I liked it." 

Zach looks down over his shoulder at him disbelievingly and he shrugs, "Jesus, what do you want me to say? It was good. All of it."

Zach snorts, looking back across the grass. "Yeah, it was."

He feels a little more galvanized. "God, it's probably great to be your boyfriend if it's like that all the time."

With a heavy sigh, Zach mutters, "Except you're straight. And generally my boyfriends are emphatically not."

Chris looks up at the sky, "Yeah."

"Are you, really?" Zach asks, and there's something in his voice that hasn't been there since this conversation started. "Chris, you are either a DDL-caliber method actor or you were _very_ happy to see me on certain occasions."

He flaps a hand toward Zach's arm, missing, "Give me some credit here."

Zach sighs, and it's more fond exasperation than anger as he lies back on the grass next to him. "That was definitely not an Oscar in your pocket."

"Nope."

Moments and wispy clouds pass above.

There's no denying it. Zach turned him on. Chris was never really sure whether it was the newness and excitement of the situation or the naughtiness of getting caught, or if it was just Zach, being the sexy fucker he actually is. Straight or not, Chris has always been capable of recognizing that fact.

He turns to look at his profile, remembering the way Zach touched him, his hands, his mouth, the movement of his lithe body against his own. He's getting hard in his shorts right now just from the thought of it and sits back up, hunching over himself on the grass.

What does any of this even mean? Could he really go there? Does he really want to, or is it just for Zach's sake, to try to wash away the pain all over his face? Chris is generous to a fault, but he can be selfish too, when he wants to be.

He shakes his head. It's not a snap decision he can make. He's only just got Zach speaking to him again, and barely at that. It was a minute and a miscommunication that got them into this mess, and he's fucked if he's not going to take some time to think hard about the reparations that need to be made and where he is in his head with it. If any part of this friendship can be salvaged at all.

"Look, I don't have any right to ask you not to be mad at me," he says softly. "And I know it's worthless for me to say again, but I am so incredibly sorry, Zach. You don't even have to accept it, as long as you can just… tell me you hear it. Please."

Zach sits up himself, heaving a deep sigh and scrubbing at his ragged hair. "I acknowledge your apology."

Chris nods to himself, eyes unfocused. Zach acknowledges, but he doesn't accept, doesn't forgive, and dammit, Chris just wants things to go back to the way they were. He sniffs, and is abruptly aware of himself again. "I stink. I should go home and shower."

Zach nods wryly, "Yes, you should."

Standing up, Chris offers a hand, and a little hope blooms in his chest when Zach takes it and allows himself be pulled to his feet. But he releases it the instant he's up and looks down at Noah, "Gonna go to the dog park."

"Okay," Chris nods, and watches Zach swiftly cross the lawn with the dog before his feet take him slowly back toward home. He looks at his palm, a last point of contact. It wasn't enough.

 

Operation Zach Back commences the following week. It starts when he comes to Zach's space on downtime with the chessboard, silently setting it up on an apple box between them. He turns the whites toward Zach, cracks his novel and waits. Eventually, Zach reaches over to move a pawn, and Chris doesn't give a rip if he gets his ass kicked. At the very least, they're communicating again, however silently.

Another day, Zach walks over with a newspaper in hand and quietly asks, "Seven letter word for 'white fur' with 'N I V' in the middle."

"Miniver," Chris answers, and in a minute of Zach writing, he gets a hint of a smile as he walks away.

Outside of work, he thinks a lot. About Zach, about himself and what he's feeling, and concludes that Zach's companionship means more to him than he thought it did. Companionship being an operative word choice, not friendship. Things don't feel right without the relentless jokes and flirting on set, and their long, passionate conversations off of it. Workouts are lonely without him. His phone is too quiet without daily texts about some cute thing Noah did, or photos of street signs or shoes. They might have seemed pointless at the time, but now that they're missing, he needs them back. He starts taking pictures of random shit, the food he's eating or a page out of whatever book he's reading (sometimes both at the same time), and sending them. He rarely gets a reply, and the ones he does get are frustrating single words that say even less than no reply at all.

At night, he considers going out, but never follows through. He jerks off in the shower, or in the darkness of his bedroom, trying resolutely to keep his mind blank, but it never stays that way. Inevitably, he thinks about Zach's hands, his breath, and all those things he'd whispered in that husky, rich voice that has him coming harder and faster than he has in ten years.

Another week passes, and the days eke into an awkward limbo wherein they behave like costars who work well as a team, but don't actually enjoy each other's company. Scenes get done, the film moves on, but it suddenly feels like scrubbing pans at the bakery instead of a job he loves.

 

Friday affords them a long lunch after some sort of lighting disaster, and he sits in craft services with the crusts of his sandwich, watching Zach and Zoe several tables away. They chat amiably, and while Chris can't hear what they're saying, he can see a level of comfort between them he's no longer privy to. Not long ago, he'd be at that table, nestled in between them. 

It stings. He knows full well he deserves what he's getting, but at the same time, dammit, he's done everything he knows short of standing outside Zach's house playing Peter Gabriel to fix this.

Maybe this is how Zach's had to be for the extent of their friendship. Closed off, at arm's length. _I was always so careful_ , he'd said. What the fuck was that about? Why did Zach feel like he had to censor who he was around him, just because Chris was straight? Hell, Chris has had feelings for lots of girls who didn't return the sentiment. It was always awkward when the truth came out. And unlike with actual girlfriends who'd dumped him, he'd managed to remain friends with a couple of the ones who got away. Maybe not close friends, but on speaking terms at the very least.

Chances are those girls aren't jerking off to thoughts of him, though. There is that whole issue. He wasn't lying to Zach, he did like what they had done. The sex stuff is less frightening than the whole idea of reassigning his sexual preferences and all the difficult shit that comes with it, life and career-wise. At the gym, without Zach there to distract him, he finds himself looking at other guys in ways he never thought of before. Or maybe he did, he just labeled it under his ingrained hetero ideal of admiring a dude's arms or legs and wondering if there was some other lifting technique they were doing differently to get it. And there's the rub, right, because it's still basically the same fucking thing as saying that guy has a nice six pack and he finds it attractive.

He never thought he'd be reevaluating something like this now that he's pushing thirty, rather than thirteen. Zach would know a lot more about dealing with it, but Zach is barely talking to him.

And Chris wants to talk. He'll never work this out if they don't talk about it. As Zach and Zoe head out, Chris tosses his trash and follows, taking Zach by the arm in the main hallway and tugging him several paces before Zach's strength stops him.

"Let go," Zach yanks his arm loose, "You can't just drag me off like—"

"I can't, huh?" Chris snaps back, "You did."

Zach drops his eyes and darts a look back down the hall where Zoe lingers, watching them like a hawk. With a huff, Zach turns his back to her and crosses his arms over his science blues, caught. "What do you want?"

"Go out with me. Saturday."

Zach's eyes cut frostily to his. "Are you joking? No."

"Zach," Chris implores, dropping his hands to his sides, palms out. "I just want to talk, man."

"There's nothing to talk about," Zach says quietly, looking down at the floor.

"There's a lot to talk about," Chris counters, "You being scared of me, for instance. Of being yourself around me." Zach opens his mouth, but Chris cuts him off, darting a glance around and lowering his voice even further, "Me, liking… everything. Us, not talking like we're in fourth grade having a fight over the best flavor of bubblegum, jesus, Zach. This is juvenile. I wanna talk."

A PA warily approaches, telling them both they need to be back on the soundstage in five. Chris grinds his teeth and nods, looking back at Zach as she moves out of earshot. "My turn. I want to take you out. I want to fix this."

Zach swallows, lashes dipping as his face flashes with fear and residual hurt. "I can't play pretend dates with you anymore."

"Then don't call it a date," Chris says. "We're going to go out and get some good food, like we used to. We're going to talk like we used to. We're not going to assume anything this time around. We're going to say what we're thinking and be completely honest so that nobody's confused, and we're going to fix this however it gets fixed. Friends or whatever. Just… not enemies. I miss you. Okay?"

Zach doesn't speak, he simply turns on his heel and walks back to the set, Chris following. He can feel Zach's eyes on him as they run through the scene, more than they've lingered in a week.

 

Chris spends too much time getting ready, trying to look casual without looking like he thought so hard about it. He considers making a reservation at that Mediterranean bistro he knows is Zach's favorite, but he doesn't even need one at such an informal restaurant. Once again, he's a failure at actually planning anything.

He hasn't felt so nervous for years, pulling up outside Zach's little bungalow. Checking his hair in the mirror and getting out of the car, he knocks decisively on the door and hears Noah's barking in response. Maybe Zach won't even open it, he technically never even agreed to this in the first place. Chris will sit out here knocking every ten minutes to set the dog off if he has to. He has a stubborn streak a mile wide.

But the door does open to a resolutely unreadable Zach on the other side. 

"You ready?" 

Zach doesn't look _not_ ready, at least; he's wearing a plaid button-up shirt and jeans and his hair is slicked off to the side, glasses hiding his eyebrows. But he dithers on the threshold, sighing as he looks at the street beyond him, "Chris, I don't understand why you're doing this."

"Right," Chris says, "I don't understand why _you're_ doing this. We are at an impasse. And I don't know about you, but I don't want to spend the next decade of my working life with a wall between me and the guy who talked me into doing this thing in the first place."

Shifting the door back and forth, Zach bites his lip and pulls it open. "Let me just feed the dog and put him up."

Chris steps inside and closes the door after himself, watching as Zach prepares the dog food, Noah wagging as he waits for it to be served. Once he sets it down on the kitchen floor, Zach leans against the counter with his arms crossed, watching the dog gulp it down. Chris watches Zach, grasping for something to fill the heavy silence.

"I didn't know you saw me with Roger that day. I never thought about what someone like… what you might have read into it." He shakes his head at the memory. "Why would you even think I went for him? You've seen me turn guys down before."

"I didn't see you turn Roger down," Zach's eyes flash up briefly, and there's something achingly resigned in his tone. "The way you were blushing and flirting back, I thought he had the deal closed."

"No," Chris shrugs, "I mean, he asked but. No."

Zach huffs, looking annoyed. "Good for you."

"He's, uh. He's not really my type."

"Yeah, I bet the penis really threw you for a loop."

"No, actually, it was the muscle," Chris deadpans, "He's got like zero percent body fat, man. He makes me feel inadequate."

Zach finally lifts his eyes and stares, silent for several seconds before he breaks into a real laugh at that, shaking his head. "God. Fucking Roger. If he didn't aim to starfuck everything with a Y-chromosome, I never would have thought I had a chance in hell."

"Roger, the cause of circuitry failures everywhere," Chris grins, glad to finally see a smile on Zach's face, even if it's a pained one. "You know, when you came to pick me up that first time, I was as nervous as any other date?" he confesses, "I don't know why, I just... I think part of me knew it wasn't a game, even though the rest of me insisted it was."

Zach eyes him skeptically, picking up the now empty dog bowl to rinse it out. "And me being a nervous wreck didn't alert you to that fact?"

"Shit, no. Were you? You didn't look it at all. You were so suave, like always," Chris says, "Nothing ever fazes you."

"You do," Zach responds, "Daily."

Chris is struck by Zach's candor. The same blunt clarity from the park. Zach is never one to mince words, but he's not holding anything back anymore. It's refreshingly underrated, talking without bullshitting. "I just… didn't think of it that way. I saw what it was, and I let myself… play a part for you, I guess." 

Sighing, Zach sets the bowl in the drying rack and plants his hands on the sink's edge, the set of his shoulders weary, "And you didn't consider, even knowing my history, that I wasn't playing? That maybe I asked you out because I've had a massive crush on you forever?"

"You did?"

"Jesus, Chris," Zach rolls his eyes at the kitchen window. "Why else?"

"Well, I didn't know!" he blurts. "You never once said anything, for like a year you've never even made a move, until—"

"I thought you were straight!" Zach's voice rises in exasperation, "I had you filed resolutely under Do Not Fuck With, up until you had to go and—you know what, I don't want to do this here." He stops, fills the second dog bowl with water and carries it past him, snapping his fingers for the dog to follow him into the mudroom where Noah stays when he's out of the house. He sets the water down and shuts the dog in. 

"Just… let's go wherever you want to go," he says, grabbing a jacket and his keys. He locks the door and heads for Chris' car, getting in without even waiting for him to catch up.

Chris puts on his seatbelt, starting the engine as Zach taps his fingers on his thigh impatiently. He drives for a mile before he blurts his thoughts into the air. "Can't we just be friends again?"

"Can't we?" Zach repeats after him, "Can we not? Is that what you're saying?"

"Don't make this grammatical, man," Chris shakes his head, and then remembers, this is what he and Zach do. They argue semantics and words, and it's _fun_. He looks back at Zach to confirm, and sees something of a nostalgic wryness there. Maybe it's a glimmer of hope. "Do you even want to?"

Another minute of the radio between them, and Zach speaks again, his face angled away, out the passenger's side window and voice tinged with regret. "I don't know if we can be friends again."

Chris darts a look at him and back to the road. "Why? Because I lied?" He shrugs, "I don't even know if it constitutes a lie anymore. I already told you, I liked it."

Zach exhales heavily, his nails scratching at his own thigh through denim. "That's precisely why." He hesitates, shaking his head. "If I'd known you were curious, I would have referred you to someone. Hell, you could have gone to Roger. Roger's a great lay," he fusses with his hair in the sun-visor mirror, "He'd be patient with you, he'd… make it worth your while. And he wouldn't get pissed if you decided you weren't into it. Everything is no strings with him."

Something condenses in Chris' stomach at that. "Things you wouldn't do, in other words?"

"I don't fuck people I have emotional attachments to."

"No?"

"No."

"I guess not, it wouldn't be fucking, then, would it?" Chris decides, that gut feeling solidifying into a spike of anger now as he drives. "It'd be something else. Strings. Calculated risk." He can see a muscle twitching in Zach's jaw. "I'm just sayin', man. You were the one who asked _me_ out on a date."

"That was a mistake," Zach pinches the bridge of his nose, "I never would have, if I hadn't let my… if I hadn't gotten the wrong idea."

Chris stares at him, the anger warring with another emotion in his chest it takes him a second to place. "You know what, fuck this." 

He swerves at a light and pulls an illegal U-turn, heading back in the direction of Silverlake. Zach looks over at him with something like alarm, but doesn't say any more until he turns off into the drive-thru of an In-N-Out, ordering a burger for himself and for Zach, the way he knows he likes it: extra tomato, no onions.

"What are you doing?" Zach asks, but he's ignored as Chris pays for the food, wordlessly hands the bag across, and drives back to Zach's house.

"Chris, what—"

"Obviously, dating isn't for us," Chris explains, taking the bag from Zach and marching up the walk, waiting for Zach to unlock his front door again. When he does, Chris pushes his way in, heading for the kitchen. "That was the mistake. The actual dating part. Not this."

"Chris—"

"I want to eat. And then I want to make out with you and see where this goes from here. And I'm going to try not to freak out this time, okay? Because I haven't been able to touch my dick in two weeks without thinking about you, so you know, maybe you were on to something after all." He shakes his head, looking at Zach, who is frozen on the spot. "I just want to rewind and try again, okay? Is that honest enough for you? Am I being in any way unclear?"

He takes the bag to the table, shrugging out of his jacket. Pulling out Zach's sandwich and fries to set in front of one chair, he takes his own food to another and sits down, unwrapping it to take a big bite.

"Sit. Eat," he says around his mouthful.

Slowly, Zach takes off his own jacket, pulls out the chair and sits, looking down at his food before looking back up at him. He's breathing carefully though his nose, yoga breaths.

"Honesty," Chris says.

Zach's tongue comes out to wet his lips, lashes fluttering down. "I… don't know whether I want to kiss you or punch you in the face right now. I'm leaning towards the latter."

Chris smiles, "Eat your food." He inhales the rest of his own burger and fries, leaning back as Zach eats at a much slower pace.

While he waits, Chris considers his earlier statement, then reconsiders it. None of it is a lie this time. On some bullshit caveman level, he really does want to just sit and kiss the hell out of Zach, but now that he's admitted it to his face, and to himself, he's unsure whether or not this plan might go as badly as it did before.

Once Zach has finished, Chris scoops up the wrappers for both of them, rolling up in the paper bag and taking it to Zach's trash under the sink as if he's comfortable here, because he is. He was always welcome to make himself at home up until a few weeks ago. _Mi casa es su casa_ , as Zach had said. He turns around to find him leaning against the cabinetry, warily watching.

As Chris' heart thumps in his chest, he laughs softly at himself. "I can't believe you were scared to kiss me," he says, even as his own pulse trips through his body. "But I get it."

Zach doesn't move, and Chris gets that too. There is no way in hell Zach is going to take any initiative whatsoever this time, and it was Zach's forwardness that even got them so far in the first place. If he really wants this, he has to grow a pair, or else get his ass kicked out the door. But it doesn't feel like just making out is the right answer anymore, and he searches his head frantically, trying to find the right cue. A minute passes with Zach's dark, abyssal gaze on him, and then another, and another. 

And then they drop, Zach deflating, "Okay. I'm going to let the dog back out."

"No, just give me a sec—" Chris grabs for his hand.

"Honestly, Chris, go work this out with some other guy."

"I don't _want_ any other guy!" he goes off furiously, "Jesus, I was already in love with you intellectually, and… and… p-professionally and…" he falters as soon as he realizes what just fell out of his mouth. "And I just. Didn't know."

"You—" Zach turns back, eyes wide and brows climbing to his hairline in disbelief. "Say that again?"

"I dunno, man, that was kind of a revelation to me too just now." Chris scrubs at his hair, heart pounding. It's one thing to say _I love you, man_ to your buddy, but this. He's pretty sure that's not what this is, even if the emotions are essentially the same. He loves Zach. Intellectually, professionally, platonically. Maybe not so much the last one anymore.

He looks down at Zach's hand, still clutched tightly in his own, casting out for more words, better words. He can't come up with any that pass the fifty-cent mark. "You know, I feel like I think about your hands more than anything?" he murmurs, spreading open Zach's fingers, trace the lines on his palm. A brief smile passes his lips, "It's the size. I'm not used to it, but… they feel good. In my hair. On my skin. Like they know my body better than I do."

He hears a slightly shaky breath leave Zach's mouth, watching his chest rise and fall. Chris spreads his other hand there, feeling Zach's heart thundering under his ribs. Zach feels all of this—whatever it is—as much as he does. "I didn't know we could get any better. But you did. Right? You knew we could be good like this."

Zach's eyes drop closed and gives a tiny nod.

Chris lets go the breath he was holding and kisses him. It still feels the same, the wild back-and-forth, the vivid intensity as Chris presses Zach back against his pantry cabinet, Zach's big, amazing hands surging up into his hair and Chris clutching at his clothes, drinking in the ragged sound he makes in the back of his throat. His mouth tastes faintly of fries and 7-Up, but it soon fades away to nothing but Zach, which is something Chris couldn't remember but now recognizes intrinsically, the same way he knows Zach's smell, his footfall, his laugh.

He pulls them up from the cabinet, not breaking the kiss as he aims for the sofa in the living room, but Zach pulls back on a headshake, taking his hand and shuffling backward, pulling in the other direction. The heat and intention in his eyes is clear, but there's apprehension too, nerves that Chris can suddenly place instantly from the one other time he remembers seeing that look, the first time Zach kissed him. Bedroom. Bedroom equals serious.

Chris doesn't even know what that will mean later, but he has Zach back, pulling him into the dim room, pressing him against the threshold to kiss him as he slaps on the lights, turning them to push Chris onto the bed and crawl over him. 

"Why the fuck would you tell me to go to Roger, when I can have you?" Chris tears away to ask, a little surprised at the gravel pit that is his own voice as Zach tilts to suck at his collarbone.

"I only said that because I was annoyed," Zach rumbles, tipping to get at Chris' neck, "I wanted to kill him for even making a move on you."

Chris laughs, and it blurs into a gasp as Zach sets his teeth into the muscle between his neck and shoulder and bites kind of hard. Drawing back up immediately at the sound, Zach stares down at him, wide-eyed. "Sorry," he says quickly, lifting off and scooting away to the pillows. His eyes skate over Chris' prone form before he busies himself with pulling his shoes off, looking stricken.

"It's okay," Chris says, sitting up and watching this new, weird Zach who thinks a little teeth is too much. The thing he was faintly aware of before comes to head now, here in Zach's intimate space. This isn't just about him figuring his own shit out. He has to be careful of Zach's heart too.

He kicks his own sneakers off and turns to face him fully, putting a hand on Zach's ankle. Maybe it's a stupid question to ask, but, "Are you really so nervous? It's just me."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why do you think? I don't want to scare you off again," Zach snaps back, but losing all the spikes when he looks at Chris' hand on him, "I want you to want me."

Chris snorts, "Okay, Cheap Trick, I want you." Zach rolls his eyes. His expression is a frisson of latent pain and fear. And hope. Chris takes a deep breath, admitting it to himself as well as Zach when says it again with more sincerity, fingers stroking under the cuff of Zach's jeans. "I want you." 

Zach swallows before he whispers, "I want to believe that."

Chris gathers his own nerve and crawls slowly up, between Zach's knees, "I wasn't acting before." He holds his weight on one hand to take off Zach's glasses with the other, setting them aside on the end table, choosing his next words carefully as he lifts his thumb to stroke over the silly abbreviation of an eyebrow on Zach's face. "I was _reacting_ to this sexy fucker who has me questioning what I like lately."

Zach's eyes go vaguely unfocused as his hands come cautiously up to Chris' waist. "You are the worst fucking tease, Chris," he groans.

"I'm only a tease if I don't—" Chris shuts up when Zach glares pointedly, feeling his face go red. "Okay, mea culpa."

"The _worst_."

Giggling, Chris drops his face to Zach's shoulder. He smells great, and he's warm like a furnace. He swallows and lets his body settle on top of him. Zach is hard already, a thick, pulsing heat in the well of his own hip, very near his own semi-aware dick under jeans. Zach's hands hesitate, then slide up over his back, stroking slowly up and down the way they had before, each firm fingertip pushing up into his shoulder blades over his shirt, down to the waist of his jeans, and back up. It feels good. All of it feels good. He wonders if he lays here wrapped up in Zach long enough, if all of his apprehension and ingrained straight definitions would just go away. "I'm sorry," he murmurs.

Zach's arms pause in their petting, then encircle him and squeeze tightly, big nose pushing a puff of air against his cheek like he's held it for weeks, and Chris finally feels all that deep-set shame and guilt let him loose. 

He lifts his face, seeking Zach's mouth and finding it, a warm, soft, slow exploration, the juxtaposition of soft, full lips and the prickle of stubble, tongues meeting and learning each other. Chris slides his hand up into the soft, short hair of Zach's nape, the longer, silky strands at the back of his head, the top slightly crunchy with product holding it in place. Zach's fantastic hands never stop stroking and caressing his back, massaging and teasing up under the hem of his shirt and then again over the fabric. When they pull apart just enough to catch their breath, Chris realizes Zach's long legs have wound around his own, the same way a woman's sometimes do. He grins down at Zach's bleary, horny face, now devoid of the tension of his worries and fears.

"Better?" he asks.

"Huh?"

Chris laughs, "It's cute how stupid you get when you're turned on."

"Shut up," Zach snickers, blinking slowly up at him with something Chris recognizes now as love. So much love. How could he have missed that before? How can he ignore the way it makes him feel?

"You know," he says, arching his brows as he props his cheek on his hand, freeing the other up to slide down Zach's neck, exploring the textures where his stubble ends, where his chest hair peeks out of his shirt, and the smooth, soft hairless skin in between, "Technically, this is our third date."

"You're such a dork," Zach tilts his chin up to be petted, still watching him from below his lashes.

"I'm just sayin'," Chris says as smarmy as possible. "Tradition dictates certain procedure, here."

"Fuck your hetero-normative traditions."

"Well see, now I'm confused again," Chris mock-frowns, fingers flicking a button open at the top of Zach's shirt. "I was about to take your clothes off and get down to business, but—"

"Oh my god, I hate you," Zach breathes and pulls him back down to kiss him hard. Chris giggles into his mouth, chest swelling. He indulges it for a minute before he pulls back to concentrate on buttons again, watching Zach's face as he pulls each one loose.

There is a certain trepidation in what he's doing now, being this close to and actively touching Zach in this way. He knows most of it before was pure reaction to stimuli. His only other experience really being up close and personal with another guy was for that movie role, and barely at that. Half of what he'd done then was just about letting his reservations go, and just doing what came to him on the fly.

Zach's bare chest offers up some familiarity, at least. He pushes his fingers up into the hair, feeling how oddly soft and springy it is once again. "I've always been so fucking jealous of this patch, man. Like, where do you sign up to get this?"

Snorting, Zach grins, "Your mom has to fuck an Italian."

Chris doubles over, belatedly realizing, as his giggles trickle off, that he's basically dropped his face right into said chest rug. It smells like Zach, clean, spicy, somehow dark. He presses his nose in. Whatever it is, it's rich and deep and earthy, like black coffee. He grins to himself again. He's never going to be able to drink a fucking espresso again without Pavlovian thoughts of Zach.

He darts his tongue out, the salty tang of skin blending with that smell. He moves down to find a nipple and see if that changes the flavor. Zach sucks in a breath as he licks, and he can feel him throb against his groin as his hips lift, feels Zach's fingers pushing into his hair.

He looks up at Zach's expression, finding his mouth open and brows pinching together. "Like that?"

Zach breathes a laugh and looks down, "Do you?"

"I like nipples," he shrugs, looking down at Zach's, small and pink, hairy, wet with his own saliva as he circles the nub with the pad of his thumb. Some things are universal. "Yours are nice."

Biting his bottom lip, Zach hauls Chris upward, muttering, "C'mere." He clambers up, over Zach's legs to straddle his hips, and Zach sits them up, chest-to-chest, pushing and tugging until Chris' shirt is gone and shrugs the rest of the way out of his own. Both hands stroke down the curve of Chris' spine, cradling his lower back as he leans in and up to kiss again. When he pulls back, his eyes are bright, but searching. "Still okay?"

Chris smirks, "Do I seem like I'm losing my shit?"

"No," Zach smiles, nuzzling Chris' jaw, "But, um. I want to get you naked. And me too. And do other things probably a lot less inconsequential to a straight man."

"I'm pretty sure there's some wiggle room on my definition these days," Chris raises his eyebrows. "Other things?"

Zach presses his smile against Chris' neck, lifting to breathe in his ear. "With my mouth. And your cock, probably." He looks up to gauge Chris' reaction. "And I'm probably going to want to put my hands on your ass too, just FYI."

"Go ahead," Chris snorts a laugh, though his pulse has already sped up at the things coming out of Zach's mouth.

Zach growls, hands slipping immediately down over his jeans, cupping and squeezing like they had before. His lips descend on Chris' neck and shoulders before he looks up at him again, bringing his hands around to pop the button on Chris' jeans. As they pull his zipper down, he inhales, holding in the breath at Zach's knuckles brushing against him through cloth. Last time, all of this moved so fast, he didn't have any time to think about it.

Rolling off to the side, Chris feels his face flush as he wriggles out of his jeans and briefs, getting it over with. He has no idea what he feels, having Zach's warm gaze all over him, over _all_ of him. He reaches over to Zach's fly, trying to distract himself, but that's nearly as overwhelming, thumbing the buttons down one by one over the sizable bulge beneath.

Zach strokes his forearm with a light finger, a teasing smile in his voice. "Do you wanna turn off the lights? Get under the covers?"

Chris snorts, feeling his blush go deeper red, "Dude, I've seen a boner before."

"You haven't seen one you're single-handedly responsible for."

Shaking his head, Chris sits up, looking Zach in the face, "No, but I've sure felt it." He scoots back, curling his fingers into the denim and cotton at Zach's hips to peel both down. "Jesus, your legs are so freakin' long," he laughs, throwing the tangle of clothes off the bed.

"Mmhmm," Zach quirks a brow, crossing his arms behind his head, "Just my legs."

Laughing, Chris crawls back up beside him and collapses on his side, every little place his naked skin brushes Zach's tingling. "You're terrible."

Zach wraps an arm around him, cautious and yet not unwelcome, "I'm sorry. Just, I'm enjoying this blushing virgin thing you're doing a lot more than I should."

"Douche." He rests his head on Zach's shoulder, dropping a hand to his chest once again. Zach has a nice body. He's always been aware of that, how lean he is, how much easier it is for him to bulk up compared to Chris, who usually has to lose a layer of pudge first. Plus there's the hair, lots of it, but all in the right places. He pets over the intriguing swirls and smooth skin before he musters up his courage and goes lower, hearing and feeling Zach inhale.

It feels, unsurprisingly, like a dick. Velvety smooth over hot hardness. It's more familiar than he expected, but different. Zach is pretty comparably long, maybe a little less thick, sort of curved. He tilts his head down to watch his hand on a cock that isn't his own. It's absolutely bizarre.

Zach speaks softly into his hair, "Talk to me."

"'S just. Different," he mumbles, moving his hand back to safer territory. Part of him worries that if he overanalyzes this too much he'll freak out again, but slowing it down so he can think about the fact that he's got his hand on his best friend's cock is also overwhelming.

"Come up here," Zach whispers, pulling him up and over himself again. 

Chris' dick has gone kind of soft again with his nerves, and he looks away. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry for that, just come here," Zach says, his expression incredibly soft as he pulls them face to face again. "This isn't a race to Gaysville, Chris. You aren't being reviewed on your performance."

Chris can laugh a bit at that. "But you want stuff that… I don't know if I can do. Yet."

"Yeah, I do," Zach acknowledges, "And I'll still want it when you do."

Huffing, Chris rests his chin on his forearm over Zach's chest. "Don't act like you're not disappointed."

"Chris," Zach smiles, his fingers pushing into his hair as he cups his face, "I have you naked in my bed, telling me you probably can't blow me yet, but you're thinking about it. I am so far from disappointed right now."

Chris giggles into his arm, lifting up to realign them more comfortably. "Perspective."

"Come here," Zach says, "Don't think anymore, just kiss me, okay? I love kissing you."

He does, crawling back up push his tongue into Zach's mouth. The kissing feels like safety now, even as he settles back over Zach's warm, radiating body. He can feel the pulse in the cock next to his own, waking it back up to arousal. He presses against Zach's wonderful hands, moving again over his back and shoulders and then down to his ass, staying far from the crack, but given permission to touch, they reach down to grip under a whole cheek in each hand and pull into Zach's pelvis, a grinding move that has Chris separate their mouths on a wide gasp. He shivers, his skin prickling with the same excitement. It's been a long time since sex has felt like this.

He's having sex with Zach. He's making love to Zach. Lunging in to kiss him hard, he breathes against his mouth, "Do it."

Zach's eyes go dark and hot, "Sure?"

"Yeah. Put your hands all over me."

"Fuck, Chris," Zach says, his breath accelerating. He slips his hot hands back down to Chris' ass, pulling and rotating his hips up one more time before he traces two fingers down the top of the cleft, using the other to spread him and lightly stroke over his hole.

Chris smears a heavy pant against Zach's collarbone, trembling as every nerve in his body seems to light on fire. "Jesus, that's fucking weird."

"Uh-huh," Zach murmurs, "But good?"

"Yeah, it's good," Chris feels compelled to drive his hips forward against the hardness beside his own, and then back against the assault from behind. Zach changes tack, pressing a little harder and moving his fingertips in small circles, the sensations shooting through him. "Oh god, that's good too."

"God, Chris, you're so fucking hot like this," Zach grits through his teeth and rolls them, kissing him deep on the mouth before trailing nibbles and kisses down his neck, murmuring as he goes, "I want to get my hands and my mouth all over you. I want to make you come every way I know how."

"Fuck," Chris slurs, "That's…"

"Too much?"

"Uh," Chris is melting into the mattress, just wanting Zach to touch him again, somewhere, anywhere. He may have said that out loud, because Zach rumbles a very wicked laugh Chris can feel in his bones as a hand smoothes down Chris' belly to his cock, working him smooth and slow. "I want to suck you. Is that okay?"

"Holy shit, okay," Chris groans, brows knitting in a red haze. "D'you… d'you always talk dirty like this?"

"Are you offended?" Zach grins. "I could be more romantic, Mr. Darcy."

"No, it's hot," he stutters, hips jerkily lifting under Zach's talented hand. "If you're gonna quote shit, though, go for Joyce."

Zach purrs a velvety laugh and quotes, "'Did you never, never, _never_ feel a man's or a boy's prick in your fingers until you unbuttoned me?'"

"God," Chris squeezes his eyes shut, laughing. "Never."

"You're such a geek." A final devilish laugh tapers off as Zach removes his hand and kisses down Chris' chest, the hot tip of his tongue tracing the circumference of a nipple, sealing his mouth over it to suck and just light rake with teeth until Chris gasps and wriggles. When he speaks again, Zach's voice is a low deep rasp. "What do you think about, with your hand on your cock and me in your head?"

Chris squirms under that mouth, closing his eyes. "I tried not to."

"But?"

He shivers at the feeling of Zach's tongue, licking along a edge of his rib cage and down to dip into his belly button. "But I would… hear your breath. The things you said to me. See your face in my head, when you were on your knees." He can feel that hot breath hovering over his cock now. "Ohhh."

"Eyes open, Chris."

Chris opens his eyes and looks down, at Zach's face as he licks up the length of his cock and descends on it, eyes glued to his own.

He realizes instantly that this won't last long. Zach's mouth is as devastating on his cock as it is everywhere else. His mouth is strong, experienced, lips practiced in this, as they dive most of the way down and slowly suck up. His tongue curls around the head and flutters against the slit, teasing a gush of precome from it.

"Oh my god, Zach," Chris slurs, trying and failing to keep his hips still as Zach does it again and again.

"Good?" Zach pulls off to ask.

He whines, clutching the bedclothes, "I won't last if you keep that up."

"Hmm," Zach dips down to nuzzle and suck at Chris' balls, wringing a whimper from his throat. One of his hands pushes Chris' thigh up further and his tongue swipes underneath to his taint and lower, making him jerk hard in surprise and stare down. The look in Zach's eyes from between his knees is terrifying. The sweet smile he gives does very little to counter it as he slides his teeth lightly over the inside of Chris' thigh, like a panther telling him he wants to eat him alive, starting right here.

"Zaaach," he groans, letting his head fall back as he pants, "That's… that's a lot."

Giggling, Zach presses a kiss to his thigh. "I'm sorry. I'm being very impatient about your butt, aren't I." He slithers up as Chris garbles a laugh at that, pausing to lick at the head of his prick where it's leaking, then back up to his mouth. Chris can taste himself there, bitter and salty before Zach pulls back.

"Can I ride you?" his silky low voice asks, gazing down at him with warm eyes as he pets through his hair, "Show you how good it feels?"

It's so matter of fact that it takes Chris a minute to reassemble it back in order and understand what he's saying. He blinks up at him, stupidly. "I. Wow. You want that?"

"Yeah, I want it."

Chris never even considered that as an option. "I always thought you were… you know."

Zach rolls his eyes. "Jeez, it's like you don't know me at all. What's the point of falling for a guy with a big dick," he slips his hand down and palms Chris again, earning a grunt, "If I don't intend to completely enjoy it? Hmm?"

Well, there's a whole new realm of possibility. Chris knows how to fuck, but every scenario he'd expected with Zach was the other way around, hence half his apprehension. He raises a brow. "What do I have to do?"

Zach lifts up, stretching over to pull open the drawer and grab supplies, "You don't have to do anything."

"So I just lay here?" Chris chuckles, "That's kinda necro, dude."

Zach huffs and sticks the wrapped condom between Chris' smiling teeth. "Ask your lady friends how it feels sometime. You can put that on, smartass."

Unwrapping the foil with a laugh, he rolls it on, watching as Zach squirts lube on his fingers and reaches behind himself. Chris isn't completely naive; he's had a basic understanding of how this works for years, but the actual visual of it is something else, watching the muscles of Zach's arm twist behind him, see him bite his lip and gather his brows in concentration. His own hands smooth over Zach's sides and back, over the round of his ass. Zach has a nice ass. He's been looking at it for weeks now, almost unconsciously.

He lets his fingers feel the tendons in Zach's wrist work as he preps himself. "You don't want me to do that?"

Zach laughs, leaning down on his free hand to kiss him. "You are something else. Freak out when I touch your butt, but you want to stick your fingers in mine?"

"Okay, jeez," Chris laughs, "I'm just trying to participate."

"You will be very participatory in a minute, I promise," Zach wipes his fingers on the towel he'd gotten from the drawer with the lube and condom.

Chris takes a deep breath, looking at his hands on Zach's hips, Zach's cock bobbing over his own, and suddenly thinks about the idea of have something that big up his own ass. "Don't you, uh, need to do that a lot longer?"

Zach leans down to kiss him again, long and hard. "I'm used to it, Chris, I don't need much. You ready for this?" Chris swallows and nods. Zach sits up, reaching behind to lift Chris' cock up and guide it in. Chris sucks in a breath and holds it as he feels himself slowly breaching insane tightness, inch by inch.

"Oh fuck, that's tight."

"Yeeeaaaah," Zach shudders as he sinks slowly all the way down. 

Chris smooths his hands over Zach's trembling thighs, trying to keep still, watching Zach's face pinch up. "You okay? You could have waited, prepped longer or something."

Zach huffs a laugh down at him, eyes dark and liquid, "You certainly have that big cock self assurance, don't you? I like to feel it."

Chris glances down Zach's body, "You're not a hell of a lot smaller than me."

Zach braces his hands on Chris chest, and takes a deep breath, tension in his face smoothing out. "If you let me do this to you, I will rim you open for so long, Chris, you'll be begging me for something you don't even know you need until I get inside you."

"Jesus," Chris pants, eyes nearly crossing, then moans long as Zach starts to move. He shuts his eyes, hands still on Zach's thighs, muscles corded and working, hair soft, riding the feeling of heat and rhythm. It feels amazing.

He blinks up as Zach moves, arching back to brace his hands on Chris's thighs, mouth open with little gasping sounds as his hips lift and fall, his cock hard against his belly. Chris can see his own dick beneath, disappearing into him. "God," he breathes, his hips jerking up of their own accord, jolting a sound out of Zach he's never heard before. Zach opens his own eyes, abs (and ass) tightening to pull himself up over Chris again. He rolls forward, and plunges his tongue into Chris' mouth, "Do it. Fuck me."

Chris groans, braces his feet up on the bed and thrusts, his hands sliding up along all Zach's smooth, soft skin, up the taut muscle of his back between his shoulder blades. All of this feels so familiar that the things that are out of place—the heavy cock dribbling against his stomach, the musky, masculine smell, the low, aching sound Zach makes into his mouth each time the head of his cock stops short of pulling out and drives back in—all of them are only heightening his awareness.

He curls his hand around the back of Zach's neck and stutters with the rhythm, breathless, "Feels good. Oh, you feel so fucking good."

Zach sobs a noise into Chris' mouth, kissing him until their teeth clash together before he wraps a leg around and rolls without dislodging them. His long legs curl around and somehow how there's a foot in the small of Chris' back, hands curled around his shoulders. "Harder."

Chris pants for breath, shifting on his knees, checking out of reflex, "You sure?"

"Yeah," Zach grits out, "Make me feel you for days, come on."

"God, okay," he gasps, and drives inside that hot, tight heat, harder than he'd ever go normally, feeling the sting in his balls as they hit Zach's ass, the loud slap of his pelvis contacting the backs of Zach thighs, watching Zach lift his muscular arms to clutch the headboard and brace down against him, a desperate sound coming from his throat with each thrust.

"Oh my god," Chris breathes. Zach is so undone, so completely wanton. Because of him, because of this. Everything suddenly pulls tight into his balls, his vision tunneling as he goes down to his elbows, kissing sloppily. "Sorry, I'm'n'a shoot, sorry."

Zach's arms wrap around him, his voice a blur of breath and need. "Do it, come for me, inside me."

He does, shouting loud as it rips down his spine and out, into such pulsing, tight heat, nearly taking the air in his lungs with it as each jolt leaves him. He collapses afterward, sucking in air and the smell of sex and Zach, doing the same under him. 

It takes him a second to wonder... "Jesus, sorry, did you?" he mumbles, lifting up, but Zach's hand is already flattened underneath him over his own cock, streaks across his belly and smearing against his own.

Zach pants around a smile, clean fingers curling in Chris' hair. "You're so fucking sexy."

Chris huffs a laugh, "Yeah?"

Lifting up his head, Zach pulls their mouths back together. "Yeah."

They kiss languidly, pausing often to breathe. As Chris' heart rate slows, he kind of expects to freak out. It doesn't happen. Even when he goes soft inside Zach and has to deal with the discomfort of pulling out and getting the thing off, he finds himself okay with the reality of being nestled between Zach's sweaty, hairy thighs, his limp dick in close proximity, watching Zach twist to pull a small trash can from the cupboard under the drawer and retrieve some wet wipes to clean them both up.

"Boy scout," Chris teases.

"Always prepared," Zach grins, dropping everything into the trash and tucking it away, tossing the towel toward the hamper in the corner and pulling a blanket from the footboard.

Zach rolls them on their sides and spoons around him, tucking the blanket over them both as he wraps his arms around Chris' chest. He's never actually been little spoon before. It's kind of nice."You do like to cuddle," he laughs.

"I do," Zach's smile presses into the back of his neck, kissing there. "But I might fall asleep on you anyway."

"Me too," Chris chuckles. "Hey Zach?"

"Mmm."

"I think I might not be all the way straight."

"God, I hope not," Zach sighs. "I'll make you waffles in the morning if you stay kind of gay, okay?"

Chris hesitates for a beat. "That might actually convince me. Blueberry?"

"With syrup and whipped cream," Zach's arms tighten, "I will feed them to you in bed if I can kiss you and touch your butt some more tomorrow."

"Deal."

 

Monday morning on set, Chris arrives feeling loose-limbed and happy. He signs in, gets Starfleeted up and primped in make-up—minimal today, thankfully. Zach isn't around the make-up trailer, probably already on the soundstage. He'd left Chris in bed reluctantly three hours earlier with a blowjob and a kiss to come in early and get eared and eyebrowed.

Once he's ready, Chris makes his way to the soundstage, smiling and greeting cast and crew. It earns him a few surprised looks, and it occurs to him that maybe he should tone it down a little. He sets his bag down on his chair, catching Zach's eye across the room where he's all Spocked out and chatting with the DP and JJ.

"You got laid," Karl decides immediately upon greeting. "'Zach's bright and bushy-tailed too, did you two finally get your ducks in a row?"

Chris opens his mouth and closes it, opens it again, "Good morning to you too?"

With a bright grin with a wink, Karl just thumps him hard on the back, "Getting some coffee, you coming?"

"Um," he shakes his head, grinning wide. "No. I've had some already."

Karl nods, and heads toward catering, but darts back and flattens himself against the wall as a huge pink mass nearly collides with him. "Jesus Christ! The fuck is that?"

On the other side of the explosion of flowers with legs is Roger, trying to fit the thing through the door. "No idea, man, it was on my desk this morning. There wasn't even a note." His eyes scan over everyone, lingering on Chris, who makes his eyes wide and shrugs the universal moue of cluelessness. After Roger takes a second to fit the multi-hued thing through the door in a rain of petals, people ducking and diving into rooms to avoid being hit with hibiscus, Chris cuts his eyes back over to Zach. Who's pressing his lips together hard in a failed imitation of nonchalance, walking over to him with his hands clasped behind his back.

"Fucking Roger," Chris mutters with a grin.

Zach nudges his shoulder, mouth barely moving as he murmurs. "Don't even think about it."


End file.
